Rhetorical Forms - John Watson
by TobiBlack
Summary: Based off the nine rhetorical forms, presented as oneshots about John Watson, whether by him or not. Warning: explicit mention of suicide, and American writer.
1. Suicide Impact

**A/N: I do not own the genius that is BBC Sherlock. Nor will I ever, so unless that changes, there is no need for repeat disclaimers, is there? No.  
**

**Send a message to me if anyone wants a continuation of a certain period of time, or a preferred type. Even what one can be about, point of view, etc. I'm open to suggestions on most everything. Clearly, exemplification (4) is not much of a hit. This is a narration, FYI.**

The shadows in 221B Baker Street were long, made darker by the oppressive sadness looming over the old Victorian-era home due to the loss of one of its occupants. It felt like it had only been hours since the man slumped into his patterned chair, the whole room duller without the insane presence of the flat's other occupant, head grasped in his hands as he remembered the event his mind couldn't move on from.

_Across from St. Bart's was a man with gray-streaked sandy blonde hair still lightened from a long ago extended exposure to the Afghan sun, his light grey-blue eyes widening as he turned towards the roof of the medical building across the street. A thousand words seemed stuck in his throat as he watched the tall figure of a man he knew better than anyone, even perhaps the man himself with his self-proclaimed 'sociopath' title, speak into his phone, "Goodbye John," watching its descent in slow motion. He could only imagine the dark locks in disarray as the ever-changing shades of cobalt-gray would narrow while he stepped off the roof. His own feet seemed stuck in place, frozen in shock as the man he had always felt too proud to commit suicide, except occasionally on Danger Nights, began to fall, "SHERLOCK!". Time seemed to slow down as he lifted heavy feet to run across the street. He barely felt the bicyclist run into him, knocking him down, before he was up again. Already a crowd was gathering; a few in ill-fitting clothes that in the part of his brain Sherlock . . Sherlock had trained, recognizing __them, while others were almost too calm in suits he had seen on Mycroft's people.__A primal gut-wrenching scream of loss was jerked from somebody when _he _hit the ground with a loud, wet SMACK. Only when it felt knives were stabbing down his throat did he realize it was him making the noise as he finally got pas__t __the vultures stari__ng at the fallen man's body, not doing a thing. So much blood . . Too much blood, pooled around the ink black curls, eyes staring unseeingly at him as he fell to his knees in it. He could feel it soaking through his trousers, leeching into beneath his skin, to where no matter how many times he washed it away, it'd never be clean again._

_He reached out, mechanically, as he could feel himself separate from the situation like the soldier he was, to take _his _pulse. As he withdrew his hand, he could __see crimson covering it__; smell __the sickly sweet scent of death_ _that once identified is never forgotten, knowing the smell lingered and would cling to his clothes; already __echoing_ _in his ears was that _horrid sound_; he could __taste the coppery tang_ _in the air, prevalent as the everyday taste of London air became lost; the lack of pulse making __the pounding of his own heart_ _so much more painful._

_He had seen death; as a soldier, as a doctor the slow-drawn and the sudden accidents - as the assistant to the World's Only Consulting Detective he'd seen nearly every strange manner it could occur. Even died for a short while, the scarred bullet hole in his shoulder proof; that _emptiness _was the only comparison at the _idea _that the man who'd given him _purpose _again could be _gone.

The memory ended, suddenly stuttering to a stop as he would have begin to hear the shrill shriek of ambulance sirens, as Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade would have pulled him away shell-shocked for only a second, before he'd begin to fight to get back to _him_, before DI Lestrade could repeat over and over to his deaf ears, "He's dead John.". His eyes were squeezed shut, trying and failing to come up with reasons Life After Sherlock - LAS - was worth it; his estranged alcoholic of sister, the kindly Mrs. Hudson crying in the floor below him. Draped over the back of _his_ jacket, given to him by the depressed Molly when he'd gone to see the autopsy photos and collect his effects, the long blue scarf - nearly matching the color of _his_ eyes - dropped on the seat. The fireplace still smoked slightly, his jumper, pants, and trousers burnt, yet the scent never faltered; it was like an infection, rotting away at him. He may have been _his_ Heart, but _he_ had been his purpose; Moriarty had won, _his fall_ had shattered him_, _caused his life to go up in flames, a ghost of memory crackling in his ear, "_I will burn the heart out of you, Sherlock_".

There was almost an audible crack as his mind broke under the knowledge _he _could be _dead_. Like an old film, an image flickered to life next to the door, to the left of a yellow spray-paint smiley punctured by bullets, "John?". His head snapped up so quickly there might have been whiplash, dim eyes wide before disbelief settled on his face, in his whole defensive stance, "Sherlock . . ?". For a moment there was hope flickering in his eyes, crossing in large floor-eating strides. Faster than tired eyes could comprehend, John's right hook connected with Sherlock's cheek, throwing him back against the door, grasping white shirt lapels, "You arse!". Tears were gathering in John's eyes, held barely in check by the knowledge that Sherlock wouldn't appreciate the sentimentality, before smiling a bit brokenly, "That was a Bit-Not-Good there, faking your death in front of me. I'm glad you're alive. Cuppa while you _explain_ how?". There was a smile curling the edge of Sherlock's lips, his eyes fond as he watched John move to make his go-to comfort, a cup of tea for both of them, "It's good to be back home John. I'd thought you'd at least come to the deduction I'd done something, not paralyzed by my death being a soldier.".


	2. Meaning

A tall thin man, swaddled in a dark blue coat that put the night sky to shame with its color, turned and swayed past onyx black trouser-ed knees as he played the violin passionately. Ink black curls bobbed with his movement, striking against the starch white button-up, cobalt-grey eyes closed in concentration, as pianist's fingers deftly played one of his own compositions; a gently-careening lilting lullaby. His brow was furrowed as he thought of why he was playing; at nearly three in the morning, in the midst of an experiment involving the decomposition rate of the human body in various environments, had heard the other occupant thrash around in a nightmare. Nearly immediately as the music drifted up and through the wooden door, the other man had started to settle in his sleep, comforted by the melody and the semi-awareness that someone trusted was awake and on guard, his mind in the middle of a war-zone.

Continuing to play, his active mind drifted into his Mind-Palace where his every memory of John resided, not one deleted. The faint 'thump' of a cane accompanying quiet in-time steps, and squeaky shoes. Grey-streaked blonde hair in a military hair-cut, lightened from extended exposure to the sun. Expressive bright-with-life light blue-grey eyes showing his every emotion, and often thought. Tan skin, but not above the wrists. Faint worry lines on his forehead, laugh lines by his eyes. Callused hands. The way he laughed deep from his gut, uninhibited. Chuckling when Donovan and Anderson were silenced with a biting rightly-deserved retort. Flustered blush whenever someone assumed they were together.

Steady aim with a gun that had saved his life within two days of meeting each other, the giggles as they'd later left the crime scene. Choosing him over whatever he was doing when called (texted). Always coming. Not the most luminous of people, but an unbeatable conductor of light (brilliance). Getting the much-forgotten-about milk. The scent of tea. The genuine awe and wonder as he complimented every deduction without hesitation, reservation, or ulterior motive. His fondness for his eyesore jumpers. His surprise on finding the human head in the fridge. Acceptance of experiments everywhere. Upset at him never retrieving milk. Worry about danger of experiments - to him [Sherlock], others, himself [John]. Dinner at Angelo's. Tenderness with Mrs. Hudson. Comradre with Lestrade. Standing up for him repeatedly with Donovan. Agreeance in Mycroft's overbearing annoyance of an existence. Worry about his eating habits, sleeping habits. Hiding the cigarettes. Flushing the emergency cocaine. Buying the extra-strong nicotine patches. The row with the chip and pin machine at the supermarket, shouting abuse at it (was not there for). Fondness of Yorick [the skull on the mantle]. Allowing him [Sherlock] to carry his (illegal) firearm on their chases across the city. Paying the cab fare. Defending him during a 'drug' bust (his [Sherlock] new cocaine stuffed in the jumper). Always coming back.


	3. A Guide for Sherlock: Making Tea

Making tea is an important multi-step everyday process for about 66% of the population of the UK. The tea-habit will be different for every single person, so as every right-thinking British person knows: the only _correct_ way to drink tea is the way you take it yourself. Everyone else, this includes you Sherlock - particularly with your strange attempts, is just Doing It Wrong. So here is a primer in tea to set you (Sherlock) on the right path.

**You** may go all in for experimenting with strange and unusual flavour combinations and types, but the basic necessity is the default: regular black tea. Before you make a cuppa, check the cupboard (better be no eyeballs or fingers or etc. in there) for a teabag, or two, of Twinnings English Breakfast (that you haven't used for an experiment and _forgotten_ to tell me we're out) while the kettle (clean!) boils on the stove (don't forget to remove _that_ pot before it boils over), as 98% of UK tea is using teabags. Find a (clean!) mug, pour hot water in, place the teabags(s) in, and allow to steep for about four minutes. Fish out the bag when it looks the right color (dark umber). Add a splash of milk.

As a man wedded to his tea, like other normal tea-drinking folk, I would like to detail that your fancier tea to be a strange and eccentric affection that needs to stop. It is a Holy and God-given beverage that sustains life and tastes bloody lovely, that must be made in the approved-of way (not with your weird half chemistry half tea blends!). Just don't use all the sugar for your ridiculously sugary tea, you drink just to annoy Mycroft when he comes to 'visit' (nag/stalk/be concerned over you).


	4. His City

There can be no doubt that London is Sherlock's city. As we run through the streets, Scotland behind and our current murdered ahead of us, I know Sherlock knows his way to get ahead of him. The animation on his face as he runs with no hesitation, he beats them to their location, no matter where by his superior knowledge of the streets. As I follow, I remember our first chase after Jefferson Hope, the cabbie behind the four 'suicides' in Study in Pink, where he ran over fire escapes, through alleys to beat the cab. Running after Sherlock, I see a familiar graffiti tag of Chinese Hangzhou numerals for a book cipher left over from our race to save Soo Lin Yao during the Blind Baker, how he found the leader of the Black Lotus Tong, Shan, based very little information, and hindering the smuggling group. As our murderer is corner, he spits out a name we know well - 'Moriarty' - bringing up more memories. It was Sherlock's response to Moriarty's text to me, sent after our near-death by bomb in the Great Game as a taunt; 'Puppy, how is it on the side of the angels? Sherlock must be so bored~ Maybe he'll burn London with ME. - JM' 'I may be on the side of the angels, but never think I am one. This is my city, I will protect it. - SH'.


	5. Important Contacts

It was quiet in 221B Baker Street, one of the two occupants elsewhere doing an experiment at St. Bart's, the other seated in his chair. In his callused tan hand lay a rather pricy and rather new sophisticated phone, particularly for the technologically- and financially-challenged blonde man, open to 'Contacts'. He had been sitting there, at a loss on who to put in, having lost contact and no longer caring about most of those in his old phone with a rash of new people too. There was 'Family', with his Mother, and his older sister Harry; then 'the Work' as Sherlock called it, with DI Lestrade and New Scotland Yard, Molly and St. Bart's. Due to the foreboding feeling he was having, as a precaution, he created a group called 'Emergency', with the nearest hospital added first, then for and concerning: radiation poisoning, exposure to biohazards, accidental and potential poisoning, and fire; at the minimum, considering some of, and leftover parts, experiments he'd seen in the flat, usually in the kitchen, and the results of, to get more than a vague idea. Then he came to a halt, unsure of how to continue.

As for Ella, he put her under 'Therapist' after a while, giving her her own group considering he would have put her under 'Medical', but as he'd not needed, of yet, to see a doctor, as he was one and could usually self-diagnosis. Sarah was considerably trickier, as he was dating her, but she'd hired him for the clinic he'd just started at beforehand . . He ultimately placed her under 'Clinic' in case Sherlock went through his phone, again, still rather 'annoyed' - 'petulant child' fit better - that he'd had to get another job at all, and decided to 'deduce' her. Mrs. Hudson was their landlady, not really needing any special grouping as he doubted he would move any time soon. He didn't even have a number for Mycroft; Being the British Government, Sherlock's older brother had no point to do so, usually contacting him, or Sherlock, and if he wanted to talk to Mycroft, he just had to wave at a nearby CCTV camera to signal so. Sherlock . . he didn't know how to classify him as - probably under 'the Work' but it didn't feel right, too clinical and inadequate - so he left him as is.

He'd gotten that far when he heard, "John! We have a case!" travel up the stairs, before leaving, a smile on his face.


	6. Soldiering Through

A soldier stands at parade rest, eyes focused on the lowering of a casket, back stiff. He ignored the whispers, "How can John stand there dry-eyed? How can he still stand by him?", focusing only on being a '_soldier: An active, loyal, or militant follower of an organization'_. Lifting his chin proudly, he properly saluted the descending body of his friend, Sherlock Holmes, as if he was a commanding officer being laid to rest, giving him one last public undeniable show of support and rest that could never be questioned. He revised his definition as he stood there from '_loyal follower in military-type group_' to '_loyal follower of Sherlock against outside criticism_'. He was a combatant, a fighter, never a **civilian**, not again after public backlash with Sherlock's own denouncement against himself.

The grey-streaked blonde man stood there still, as people mostly undeserving of the title 'mourner' began to leave. His uniform was of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, complete with his ranking, medic arm-band, various medals - one for being wounded in action (technically killed), being the sharpshooter of his unit, as well as his (illegal) British Army L9A1 Browning unmodified, tucked into the waistband. He had been career military, he would stand there until his legs gave out, his arms went numb, until he passed out, willing to wait forever for the familiar voice to say with a small smirk, 'At ease Captain'.

Rain began to come down, ghosts of memories speaking in his ear, "_You're an army doctor and you're invalided home from Afghanistan."_ "_You are. 'For Queen and Country'." _- Sherlock; "_The bravery of a soldier_" "_You're very loyal very quickly [to Sherlock Holmes]._" - Mycroft Holmes_; _"_He's sweet, I can see why you like having him around. But then people do get so sentimental about their pets. They're so touching and loyal. But oops! You've rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson. Gotcha!_" - Jim Moriarty; "_You want to remember, Sherlock, I was a soldier. I killed people."._


	7. Now and Then

The silver-streaked light brunette Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade may not have been a genius like either of the Holmes brothers and may be able to '_observe_' the way they do, but he still '_sees_' more than they would (grudgingly) admit. Sherlock and John, as 'the World's Only Consulting Detective' and his assistant/doctor/flatmate/blogger/liaison/_friend_, have changed since Sherlock (not that he would ever say so, not in the way it had) came back, yet are very much the same. The proof was here, in this case, in the way they acted, and _why_.

They were silent as they exited the cab, Sherlock hovering slightly as if to make John didn't leave, but he was waved off towards Lestrade as the shorter man paid. _John was continuing whatever they started in the cab, "a head in the fridge, next to the food Sherlock!" "No Sherlock, we cannot (insert various body parts/chemicals for experiments)" just some - as he paid the cab driver, Sherlock moving towards the (XYZ) crime scene._ John followed after Sherlock, leaning on his cane heavily, eyes always on his friend's back, never noticing Sherlock's own glances. _The grey-streaked blonde man was smiling as he jogged after Sherlock, who was smirking slightly as he held up the crime scene tape for him, the limp he'd first came with gone after the first case, 'Study in Pink', eyes always met without hesitance_. Donovan stopped the two, saying something that seemed to annoy Sherlock, and have John narrowing his eyes in silent anger before pulled Sherlock past, a faint smile on his face as Sherlock made some arcebic observation in retaliation. _ Donovan 'greeted' Sherlock with "Freak's here!", having John ask if she was still sleeping with Anderson, with tightly controlled anger__ in return_, Sherlock responding that it was obvious she was, before Lestrade retrieved the two, pretending not to notice the two's shared smirk. Walking onto the crime scene, John released Sherlock as if he just realized he was still holding onto him, before gesturing toward the body, as if to say 'Go on, do your thing'. _The Detective Inspector led them over, the two following side-by-side until Sherlock sees the body, beating them there but not starting until John was near_. He got to the two as Sherlock started his observations, leading into how the neighbor did it over the victim's rejection of his advances, then John's quiet, unintentional, soft "Brilliant". _John's face showed his unabashed awe that never lessened no matter how many times he heard the taller man, which had Sherlock preening proudly after every glance, before they were informed it was the nephew over the inheritance via poison in the hand cream, "Brilliant!"._ John's face held awe, no less than before, Sherlock standing a little taller as he realized his_ friend_ still wasn't like the rest in regards to his observations even with his _absence_, before he led John out, asking if he wanted to go to Angelo's. _John smiled softly at his friend, faintly embarrassed at saying so aloud, so loudly, as Sherlock gave him clues to prove it was the nephew, before leading John out, John suggesting Chinese take-out._ John bumps shoulders softly, his voice barely carrying loud enough to be heard, except by Sherlock, "Yeah . . that sounds good. Can we eat more than a sixth of a meal combined? Then let's go _home_.". _The two walked closely together, Sherlock scoffing at his 'transport's' boring need for food but ultimately agreeing as long as long as they hurried home, that there was an experiment he had to tend to._


	8. Illusionary Reality

**A/N: This is a 'Side B' to 'Suicide Impact', and the second narration.**

A slightly portly man, dressed in a three-piece suit worth more than most's rent for several months, sat in front of his antique carved oak desk, watching a scene even he hadn't anticipated. On his laptop, via hidden cameras, was the flat 221B Baker Street. Putting down his tea, he went back to when the flat's occupant would have returned home from his work at the clinic a few days before, trying to find the catalytic moment.

It had been a week after the funeral, the man obviously in the midst of grief and barely aware of his surroundings then, not allowed to officially work at clinic due to his dead-looking eyes and returned limp and tremor. He spent hours sorting files before returning, nursing cups of tea that grew cold long before he drank them. Occasionally he would cry silent tears, great heaving sobs, then stare morosely at a quiet violin, become unable to clean up spoiling experiments, refuse visitors, before he drank himself to sleep. It was pitiful for the watching man to see, this proud solider who had made his brother into something more, quickly fall apart.

He found the moment that made the current events make sense, on the day before current time.

_The grey-streaked blonde man was nearly curled in on his self in his patterned chair, dulled blue eyes closed as the clothes he had worn the day Sherlock had jumped lay folded in front of him. His hands were curled over his ears, as if to not hear something, his eyes scrunched closed now to hide from some sight haunting him. He suddenly got up, unfolding himself as he stalked to the heavily bleached clothes, picking them up as if they were diseased, and throwing them in the fireplace with more life than previously seen and with a fury. He dashed around the flat like a madman, eyes bright with fervor, giving Sherlock's things a wide berth as he looked for something. By his choice of checking under the kitchen sink, the watching man realized he was looking for Sherlock's acid that he'd removed as soon as he could, not even three days before this. Hissing out in anger, callused hands gripped his hair at a loss, blue eyes wild, the man frantically continued his search._

_He overturned anything movable, searching still, eventually coming out from under the couch holding a match as if it was the holy grail, grabbing the nearly bottle of bleach as well. Pouring the extremely flammable liquid over the clothes, he smiled as if a great weight had been lifted from him, eyes maniac wide as he focused on the small flickering flame, whispering loud enough for a small wire to hear, "I will burn the Heart out of you" looking more than a bit haunted by the words. From where he watched, the man's eyes narrowed as he recognized the words, realizing that The Plan had backfired and Moriarty had won with the last laugh - John had broken with the Fal_l_._

_Once every scrap of material was gone, a calm came over John, a stagnant dead one to replace the vigor just shown, and sat back down in his patterned chair. He looked calm, nearly as calm as he had at the funeral, and relaxed, as if able to forget at the moment the event hanging over his head, haunting him with knowledge he couldn't forget. It didn't last long, an innocent gaze over the couch, faded blue eyes became rived to a familiar dark jacket, lovingly and carefully folded, with the dark blue scarf draped on top, sitting on where Sherlock had. Pain filled his eyes, once again reminded but unable and unwilling to discard his friend's prized possessions. Slumping over, nearly curling in on himself, John covered his head with hands, hand shaking slightly_.

_The angle of the camera suddenly changed, the man manually switching cameras as he carefully watched the screen, unwillingly to look away now when before he would have, guilty conscience pushing him to give the other man privacy - as much as he could give. He zoomed in on John's face, seeing the tight corners and unfocused gaze showing he was far from the 'present', before the backfire of a car outside the flat startled him aware. It took him a moment still to come back to the flat, the instinctive flattening of his body and unaware reaching towards his illegal weapon, telling_.

_Something he couldn't hear had John's head whipping towards space next to the door, to the left of the yellow spray-paint smiley punctured by bullets (thanks to Sherlock's boredom one day), as the man's eyes widened in disbelief, face slack with it, defensive stance riddled with it. Tears began to well in blue eyes, fragile hope shining through before he took sudden floor-eating strides. Faster than he anticipated John was across the room, trowing a right hook at the height his brother's cheek would have been, before stalking towards the wall with a well-meant fury, grasping at invisible shirt lapels and pulling close, "You arse!". The tears in John's eyes threatened to fall, before he smiled a bit brokenly, "That was a Bit-Not-Good there, faking your death in front of me. I'm glad you're __alive__. Cuppa while you _explain_ how?". Letting go of what-must-be-a-hallucination, John walked quickly towards the kitchen, setting to make two cups of tea, tsk-ing at the sinkful of dishes, "I remember you saying something about snipers suddenly moving in, and how vindictive Moriarty was every time you did something a little different then expected. It'd reason to stand therefore that Moriarty offered a choice. SniperS, more than one, more than one target. He threatened people you cared about, you suspected . . ". His line of thinking must have reached a conclusion as he whirled around and glared, "_You . . !_ You bastard! You _planned_ your death, _faked_ it in front of _ME!_", narrowed eyes locked on his target, "_Don't_ you tell me it was the __only__ way. Hundreds of ways other than letting me believe you dead! Mrs. Hudson is inconsolable!". His expression softened, still raw, still hurt, still angry, but less so, "You did . . You came home . . after a week . . " before he reached for the two cups of tea, "I'm going to assume that bastard Mycroft helped you. I_ thought_ I saw some of his people, maybe a few of your homeless network.". He sat a cup next to Sherlock's couch, choosing to sit in his patterned chair, eyes having never left his target, as if afraid that if he looked away his hallucination would go, "Nice to know that it wasn't just my trauma making it up, that I'm not hallucinating."._

Mycroft had seen enough, more then enough, through it unnerved him some that John had observed at exactly the wrong moment and so far was on the right line of thought. Turning away from the screen some, he began to text a number, hoping that they were well and still in London, '_John hallucinating you, mental state unstable and likely broken, come back -MH_' but hesitates pressing 'send', needing them out there to catch Moriarty's men before they could come home.


	9. Cause and Effect for the Milk

The blonde man with grey streaks in his slightly shaggy hair felt his blood pressure skyrocket as the pin-and-chin machine chimed in an electronic female voice, "Sorry, card denied. Please try again." for the ninth time with nary a pause. He narrowed blue eyes at the machine, trying to ignore the shuffling, restless shoppers behind him, "You bloody dimwit, bugger. _Kuss ummak*._". Seconds later he could feel the glares of several women, those with young children.

What led to a Dr. John Watson to having a row (I.E. - shout abuse at) a pin-and-chip machine was a certain chain of events. After their, Sherlock and his, first case (Study in Pink) they were going a week (and counting) without a case, their source, and for Sherlock, without something to keep him from boredom. This lack of income equaled lack of funds, which when combined with his Army Disability being used for rent, made for an empty bank account. Sherlock bored meant trying John's nerves excessively, which had John falling back on the time-honored action of making tea, guaranteed to calm his nerves. Excessive tea making meant running out of milk, which made a trip to Tesco's [the local supermarket] necessary. All together (no money, needing milk, supreme irritation) ended up with John yelling at the pin-and-chip machine.

**A/N: *Roughly translates to: 'Fuck you', except nowhere as nice, in Arabic as far as I know.**


	10. I believe in Sherlock Holmes'

**A/N: This is the ninth form, I've officially written each one now. From here onwards, all forms will be used freely, through roughly in the same number for each.**

Across London, 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' buttons began popping up after the funeral, broadcasting people's belief in and support of. At first, it was one, then three, then five in a crowd. No one knew where they came from, only that 'extras' were passed from person to person, spreading further and further.

Amongst many, it was their belief that the buttons originated from one person, who loudly proclaimed that the accusations against Sherlock were false, particularly when he wore his proudly: Dr. John Watson, assistant and self-proclaimed blogger of the World's Only Consulting Detective.

He did not in fact make these buttons, but his belief, all but shouted from the rooftops, made it easy to believe so. No one else had such passion in their belief, unwavering in it. From moment one, he defended Sherlock after the Fall, giving his statement - how none of the accusations had ground to stand on. That Sherlock did not fake James Moriarty - a bomb strapped to his chest with snipers pointed at his head and Sherlock's, Sherlock's genuine worry at seeing him there, the particular brand of sociopathic madness known as Jim Moriarty wasn't faked. The buttons began to appear within days of the funeral - John was still in shock, refusing to believe his best friend was dead, cocooned in 221B Baker Street, with the proof being Mycroft's (as the 'British Government') CCTV cameras, barely living with the grief. No, it was not John, no matter how much it seemed to fit.


	11. Anchor Me Home

**A/N: This is 'Side B' to 'Meaning', and the second description.  
**

A man was asleep in the dark room, the only light from London's street lamps outside, thick curtains over the single window. The short man tossed and turned, head whipped from side to side as his face scrunched up in remembered pain. His dreams were haunted memories; of what he knew, some pieces just the bare bones of what he'd been told with his own embellishment, what should have happened, and what could have happened.

_The hot desert sand burned the exposed skin, the humid air boiling sweat, John felt like he was melting in the thick uniform. The base had been swamped with wounded, all urgent wounds taken care of when the Lieutenant had told him of a hurt soldier not far from base that couldn't be moved. He had immediately taken off, telling the nearby nurse to prep surgery as he stabilized the one soldier. When he'd arrived, there was no wounded, only him and the Lieutenant. He'd turned around to confront the man when a gunshot suddenly echoed in the silence, seeing the crimson paint the nearby rocks. The sharp pain expanding from his shoulder and knees, the pounding of his heart in his ears, the burning of the sand on his hand, in the exit wound of his left shoulder, the cool blood mixing with the gritty sand and soaking into the back of his clothes. Pressing a numb hand to the wound, the faint footsteps of the Lieutenant, fumbling for his radio and talking, unsure of his words._

_Total darkness, no sound, nothing. Screaming into the abyss. Oil filling his mouth, gagging on it. The sudden shock of electricity, voices, blinding white. Pain. A knife in his right thigh and left shoulder. Sudden relaxation as his eyes met calm green ones. Life._

Before his mind could wander to every shot he'd made, the sounds of violin drifted up through the flat to him. His thrashing ceased nearly immediately, starting to settle in his sleep, comforted by the melody of a gently-careening lilting lullaby and the semi-awareness someone was awake and on guard, his mind no longer in the middle of a war-zone, but coming home to 221B Baker Street London.


	12. Worrisome Waking Dream

**A/N: I was going to say 'Side C', but that just sounds ridiculous. 'Side B' is about the same scene just in the opposite view point, but 'Side C' here is more of a continuation of the idea(s) introduced in the other narrations.**

A blonde man, hair streaked with grey, and blue eyes no longer heavily shadowed and dull with grief, but light with unexpected joy, was chasing something. His flat was in mild disarray, in comparison with its 'normal' state since he had moved in with another to 221B Baker Street. To an observer, the man appeared to be chasing air as he lunged and grasped at something that was 'just out of reach'. To John, there (italics: was) someone there with him, and his mind couldn't be persuaded otherwise.

He saw a taller, paler man jump over 'their' couch, ink blank curls bouncing as he ran around in a thin white bedcloth wrapped around his waist and draped over his chest, "John! A check-up is thoroughly unnecessary, I was only gone ten days!". John seemed to pick up the pace so his fingertips brushed the cool, silky smooth cloth and cool skin, muscles tensing at the contact, "Bloody hell it is, Sherlock! In ten days, you could have contracted any number of things! I don't believe that you weren't hurt at all in the Fall - not with that amount of blood. Even if they were blood packets as you claim, there is no way you could have replenished it already - you don't weigh enough as it is! Not to mention you could have wounds from then, visible or not - which you did! - that you would unknowingly ignore to your 'transport'.". Sherlock appeared to suddenly change tactics, running toward John, who tried to change direction to keep up, while attempting to tackle the oncoming body. The elder partially succeeded, arms wrapped around the other's middle as he took them to the ground, in a mess of tangled limbs.

The taller immediately began wriggling around, attempting to escape when John's secure and almost tight grip had him suddenly flipping them over so he pinned John to the floor. A frown pinched John's eyebrows together, unhappy with the pin, but willing to take what he could get as his hands ran over Sherlock, "Hold still you arse. Let me at least appease my worries by checking." ignoring how the man stiffened as he prodded with gentle fingers against cool skin. Sherlock jerked back, putting more pressure on John's shoulders as he leaned back to scrutinize the blonde's face, whose eyes were focused only on poking and prodding, "Why are you worried? You're a doctor, your Hippocratic oath insures you check, but you appear to be genuinely worried. You claim to be my friend, but anyone else would still be ignoring me - would say I betrayed your trust. Why do you still care?". John's eyes softened a bit as he met Sherlock's, his hands resting on the other's chest where he had been inspecting, "Of course I still care. You're my friend, I may be angry you faked your death (italics: in front of me), but I'll always care. I'll always worry. I completely expect us to one day retire just outside London, to solve the neighborhood mischief, maybe even cause some of it, as you raise bees, or go out together. I can't go through your death again, I refuse to." before softly pushing him away so they could get up. John dusted himself off as Sherlock watched closely, "Sherlock, the staring is a Bit-Not-Good. Take a seat.", the taller started to protest, "Why-""Take a seat.", a bit of Captain Watson leaking into his 'request'. Sherlock started to sit down before he realized he was doing so, "You feel obligated to protect me because your father's a drunkard and-""Sherlock! Leave my family out of this! I don't care if you think yourself right, I 'protect' you because you're my friend! Stop trying to run me off already. If you really meant it, you would be a lot crueler, and could have Mycroft ruin me if you really wanted me gone for good.".

The two were quiet, realizing that they had both played more cards than either really wanted to go, that if they went any farther, they would expose each other's vulnerabilities and secrets to the air and have to confront them. John moved toward the kitchen, "I'll make us some tea. Sherlock. Just get dressed.", cheeks coloring a dull red as he realized Sherlock was still only wearing a bedsheets. Sherlock saw John's hasty retreat to the kitchen, and to his comfort of his tea, chuckling silently as he left the room.


End file.
